


If You Will Study War No More

by Kemmasandi



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Dubious Alien Biology, F/M, Mechpreg, Medical Procedures, Multi, Other, Spark Sex, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:05:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Cybertronian population grows by one, and Ratchet becomes Earth's newest celebrity mama.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cosmicat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmicat/gifts).



> **Title:** If You Will Study War No More  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Universe:** TF:Prime [AU]  
>  **Characters:** TF:P ensemble plus a few continuity imports  
>  **Pairings:** Optimus Prime/Ratchet, Agent Fowler/June Darby, others to be advised  
>  **Content Advisory:** Smut [sticky/sparks], mechpreg, dubious alien biology, discussion of abortion and forced pregnancy, discussion of consent, in which Kem indulges her realistic mechpreg vice a whole lot...
> 
> My part of a trade for angelofmilkyway on tumblr, inspired by a bunny I posted on tumblr a wee while ago [which I can't find, apparently I didn't tag it with my normal ficbunnies tag ;A;]. It's... apparently going to be a big one. :B
> 
> Continuity notes! TFP, sans Predacons and Optimus 2.0. If we assume Darkness Rising takes place in spring 2010, then this is late winter going into spring 2016. Magnus still has half a hand. Silas and MECH remain in play. Human civilization in general now knows of the Autobot-Decepticon War, due to a climactic battle about two years ago, in-atmosphere over the southern Great Lakes, in which several million people saw (and video'd) a newly-arrived contingent of Autobots take out a similarly newly-arrived Decepticon destroyer. Such a phenomenal security breach was never going to be contained, of course, so the USA was forced to reveal the Autobots' presence to the world. This kind of came as a relief to Optimus, who'd had increasing doubts over the matter of being essentially patroned to the White House. 
> 
> Two years later, vast improvements in international relations have been gained, and the continued threat of Decepticon activity (they seem to be building a base on the Moon) keeps things in a more or less constant state of battle-readiness and temporary patches. Things work - but only as long as no-one asks why.
> 
> Apologies for the summary. I really couldn't think of a decent one. :?

IF YOU WILL STUDY WAR NO MORE

Ratchet woke late on Sunday afternoon, snug in the knowledge that he wasn't scheduled on at the medbay again until midday on Tuesday.

He flexed his digits and felt blindly for the hollow in the metalmesh coverlet beside him. Optimus habitually rose at dawn; the berth had been cool for hours. A short-lived pang of disappointment pricked at his processor, but the pleasant muzz of a recharge several hours longer than the minimum needed for functionality swept over him in its wake. He tucked his knees up and burrowed his face further into the thermal blanket, denying his surface processor permission to online. 

The next time he managed to string two commands together to check his HUD chronometer, six o'clock was already two minutes gone.

Hm. He really should put in an appearance sometime today. 

Not that anyone who mattered would wonder where he was, but... well. Did he really want to have to say he'd slept all day?

 _That's what holidays are supposed to be for,_ a minor subprocessor reminded him. _How much recharge have you lost over the past ten years? How much of it would you like to get back?_

There was a crick in his neck. He rolled his helm from side to side. The joint cracked spitefully. He winced.

He'd probably been laying here too long anyway. It would be best to get up and walk away the stiffness in his old joints. He didn't have to stay up, after all.

He tentatively onlined his optics.

The room was dark, the air cold and still. The sounds of his own vents filled his audials, soft and rhythmic; the faint rustling of the thermoblankets under his own faint movements cutting through over the top. He was warm and snug, cocooned against the northern winter. It took a surprising amount of effort to push the blankets away from his face and shoulders and take a deep refreshing vent.

His higher processors sedately came online. He reset his optics a couple of times and reached his arms above his helm, arching his back until he could brush the rough rock-hewn wall with his fingertips. He ached in places – too long spent curled up on his side. Despite that, he felt better than he had in months. His neural centers were responding promptly, his electrical components free of static charge. His spark hummed, radiating warmth and energy through his chest. 

Yes, he'd seldom had better awakenings.

Ratchet levered himself upright, pushing the blankets down to his thighs and resting his hands in his lap. He flagged himself into the base network and reached out to Teletraan, borrowing the AI's omnipresent nodes for a quick overview of the day's progression thus far. Optimus was his first port of call: the Last Prime was busy teleconferencing with politicians in Asia, but not too busy to send Ratchet an affectionate observation about the time of day and a promise that, should Ratchet wish to leave the berth, he would be retiring for energon in ten minutes or so and would greatly enjoy the company of his mate.

Ratchet chuckled aloud. :: _I'll be there_ :: he sent. 

Prying himself out of the berth was a feat and a half despite the incentive. How he envied young bots who could leap out and into hasty salutes at the first note of Ultra Magnus' reveille. 

He made it to the edge of the berth and managed to swing his pedes over the edge. He sat there for a moment, still very tempted to roll over and go back into recharge. Optimus would understand, he'd been the one dealing with Ratchet's cranky sleep-deprived self for untold vorns...

But no. Ratchet firmed his will and stood.

His joints crackled a little at first, pushing for the abolition of gravity. He braced his hands on his hips and leant to either side, coaxing movement into the mechanisms. He could afford to be patient with his body today. He pushed himself upright and stood motionless, running a quick diagnostic on his locomotive systems. His equilibrium controls had been playing up lately. He hadn't yet found the cause.

  
The diagnostic came back green. Ah well; it had been a long shot.

He made his way out into the gloomy residential corridor. The lights never seemed bright enough during the winter. There was nobody else to be seen. He hurried along the corridor, turning left at the first junction. 

The rec room door slammed open as he approached it. Whirl slunk out, his lamplike optic scanning the corridor. It stopped on Ratchet, its stare blank and lifeless. Behind it, the Wrecker's field bloomed with vivid gentian blue and fuchsia, an illogical combination of anger and entertainment. Ratchet slowed his pace. For a moment it seemed as though Whirl might have been going to speak, but he abruptly turned his back and stalked off the other way.

Ratchet vented slowly. For a moment he wished he'd stayed in his nice warm berth.

To a mech, everyone in the rec room glanced at him as he opened the door. Most lost interest as soon as he proved not to be Whirl. He returned Trailbreaker's friendly ping and Sideswipe's far too exuberant for the end of the shift hello, and headed for the energon dispenser.

Since the arrival of the main Autobot force two years ago, energon shortages had all but disappeared overnight. Rationing was still in effect, but Ratchet was able to distill himself a measure of mid-grade out of his weekly allowance and have a choice of three mineral toppings, luxury he hadn't so much as dreamed of since Cybertron had gone dark.

He chose the yellowcake. Several human governments had been ecstatic to find that Cybertronians considered certain radioactive waste products delicacies.

There were still five minutes left before Optimus' meeting was due to end. He approached the table Trailbreaker was sharing with Groove and Hot Spot, maneuvering himself into the conversation. It was fairly simple stuff – a much-fragmented recollection of the cyclone-relief mission in the South Pacific the Protectobots had just come back from. Hot Spot was doing most of the work; Groove kept nodding and grunting where he felt the narrative needed more emphasis. 

Halfway through Hot Spot's account of the floodwaters boiling through the streets of Nadi, the rec room door slid open again. Optimus entered, Ironhide and Windblade in tow.  
Ratchet sent him a locator ping. Optimus' expression brightened as he caught sight of him. He half-turned toward Windblade in response to her question, then smiled and made a beeline for Ratchet's table. Ironhide said something to Windblade with a grin, then followed suit.

“May I join you?” Optimus asked the table's other occupants, polite as ever. As if they would ever refuse him, Ratchet thought indulgently.

“Sure,” Trailbreaker said, orange visor glinting in welcome. Hot Spot reached around the table and pushed out the chair closest to Optimus, wordless agreement pulsing in his field.

“Thank you,” Optimus said, his own EM field glowing in pleasure, and sat down.

“I take it the meeting went well?” Ratchet asked. Optimus was adept at hiding his inner thoughts when he was required to, but this time he hadn't even bothered. His field was loose and relaxed, the inner layers glowing a content pink; his expression was loose and his optics serene blue rather than his usual blue-white with stress.

“Yes, very well,” he said, shuffling his chair closer to Ratchet in order to make room for Ironhide, who had had to nab a chair from a neighbouring table before he could sit down.

“We have preliminary permission from the Philippines to establish an eastern Pacific response center. The location is pending further discussion, but I feel that their intent is generally positive regarding this. It was a very productive discussion.”

“That sounds promising,” said Hot Spot, whose idea the regional response centers had been. 

Optimus gave the table a pensive smile. “It seems so. Time will tell, of course.” He deftly turned the conversation back to the Protectobots' recent mission. 

Hot Spot, having already reported the mission's specifications, launched immediately into a story of Streetwise's acquaintance with a coconut crab. 

The Protectobots were young; perhaps the youngest of all the Autobots. By the time they'd been sparked, a purpose-built gestalt to help keep the northern Tagan Heights free of Bruticus and Menasor's clutches, the war had already been in full swing. Until they had come to Earth, they had had no experience of a planet at peace.

Ratchet tried not to think about that, but the thoughts were already there, and they came spilling out past his mental barriers. As far as he knew, the entire remaining Cybertronian population numbered around four hundred and fifty individuals. There were more, he hoped, roaming the stars somewhere, beyond the reach of signals either Decepticon or Autobot. Perhaps some had chosen to ignore their call. He couldn't fault them if they had.

 _How does it feel,_ his rogue subprocessor asked, _being a critically endangered species?_

He manually deleted that train of thought. Nothing constructive lay down that path.

Windblade returned, bearing three drinks. She passed the two extra to Optimus and Ironhide, downing the third herself and squeezing herself into the gap between Ironhide and Hot Spot. Like Ratchet himself, she was a listener rather than a talker, but all good conversation groups are enriched by such participants, especially when they tuck their wings in so as to avoid smacking their compatriots in the face. For a Seeker, she had impeccable manners on the ground.

Ratchet nursed his own energon in silence, giving it a surreptitious stir with his finger to stop the yellowcake from settling to the bottom. Despite the midgrade settling in his systems, he was beginning to feel sleepy again. Perhaps he'd been more run-down than he'd thought.

A discreet message pinged in his inbox. :: _Are you feeling unwell?_ :: The signature glyph pointed to an only little unexpected source: Groove.

:: _Only a little tired. Surprising, considering how long I recharged for this morning._ :: Ratchet made a face at his midgrade, self-aware enough to recognise that if it had been First Aid saying so, he would have already chivvied his former apprentice into the gestalt's shared berth. He'd never had to threaten to tie any of the Protectobots down to get them to recharge; the convalescent's brothers had always done that for him.

Groove blinked at him – optics offlining, then flickering back on. :: _Remember to look after yourself_ :: he said, and in such a way that Ratchet could never have taken offense, remembering the solemn, helpful newspark that he'd helped mentor so many vorn ago.

:: _I will_ :: he said.

The conversation wound down, as conversations do. Ratchet debated going back for more midgrade, but he did want to be able to sleep whenever he went back to berth, so decided otherwise. The group dispersed, Hot Spot and Groove heading off to a well-earned berth while Trailbreaker and Ironhide joined other people. Windblade spoke with Optimus for a short few minutes – something about their work, so Ratchet wasn't really paying attention – then left.

A hand at his shoulder startled Ratchet. He looked up into Optimus' concerned optics.

“Are you all right?”

“Either I slept too long, or not long enough,” Ratchet reassured him. “I feel good otherwise; just a little tired.”

Optimus frowned, speculative. “Are you sure? There is something a little different about you today, old friend.”

“Other than having had about three times as much recharge as usual?” Ratchet dropped their empty cubes into the recycling chute as they passed. “Surely that's got to have been good for something.”

“I suppose that might explain it.” Optimus did not sound convinced. “Your field, Ratchet. It... well. I'm not quite sure how to describe it, but it does feel different.”

And he really should be doing a better job of reassuring Optimus – who was the medic between them, after all? – but experience had taught him to be wary of sparks. Changes in EM field could sometimes be the first indicator of problems.

“I'll investigate it tomorrow,” he promised. “Right now all I need in life is our berth, and you in it with me.”

They were alone in the hallway. Optimus' field pulsed a vivid pattern of desire. Despite his fatigue, Ratchet found himself responding, wavelengths opening, the rhythmic spin of his spark quickening.

Optimus caught him as soon as they were through the door to their berthroom. Ratchet turned to face him, tucked in close against Optimus' chest. Strong arms looped around his waist, one hand splaying against his lower back while the other cupped his aft and lifted him. He wrapped his legs around Optimus' waist and held on tight. Optimus cradled him in his arms and he'd never felt more safe and secure. He tipped his face up into a series of soft, nuzzling kisses, Optimus' gentle venting warm on his subdural sensors. 

They moved toward the berth. Optimus laid him down with infinite gentleness, kissing his mouth, his cheeks, his chevron. Ratchet dialed open his fans, venting hot air. Oh, it felt good, it really did; Optimus never failed to raise him to heights of arousal he'd once dismissed as pure fantasy. Yet he really was tired, his systems flagging, his charge levels stubbornly low. 

Ratchet pulled back regretfully. “Not today, Optimus. I really am tired.”

Optimus merely nodded. He drew back, kneeling on the berth beside Ratchet and drawing the thermoblankets back over Ratchet's frame. “What would you have of me?” he murmured, flattening his palm against Ratchet's central thoracic plating on the draw back, just over the spark. His voice was deep and rumbling like distant thunder, but no less gentle than his touches. 

Ratchet took him by the shoulders and urged him down. “Lie here with me.”

Ratchet felt himself gathered into Optimus' arms once again, held close against the Last Prime's frame as he lay down and gathered the coverlets around them. He felt the spin of Optimus' spark beneath warframe-grade armour, deep and strong. It was comforting, soothing. Soon he felt the weariness take hold of his frame. He offlined his optics and the warm darkness engulfed him. His own spark slowed to match his mate's.

“There,” said Optimus, suddenly. “Do you feel that, Ratchet?”

About to make a snarky comment about all the recharge he wasn't getting, Ratchet onlined his optics. The expression of naked worry on Optimus' face stopped him in his tracks.

He bit his glossa. “No, I still don't feel anything out of the ordinary.”

Optimus' servos idly stroked his back. “I am certain that I am not imagining things.”

Ratchet draped his arm over Optimus' waist and squeezed gently. “I'm running a spark data analysis just to be sure, but I don't think it's anything to be worried about. I'm not due to move into tertiary-sequence for a few thousand vorn.”

“Primus willing we have a long time before then.” Optimus kissed his chevron again. “It is simply disconcerting. I worry about you for no good reason at the best of times.”

Smiling wryly, Ratchet rested his helm in the crook of Optimus' neck. “It is not one of your more endearing traits, but I don't suppose I make it easy to unlearn.”

The scan shuffled rapidly through the last few percentages of his recent spark data. Ratchet brought the final report up onto his HUD. 

“Hm.”

Optimus' hands stilled. “Is something wrong?”

Ratchet stared at the numbers, willing them to make sense. “Increased energy output and usage? Why would I...”

“The fatigue seems relevant,” Optimus observed. “Where is the increased charge going?”

“My mineral absorption and internal conversion systems. I'm not recovering from an injury; I haven't had anything more major than a slipped gear for six years. That and the charge production increase is considerable; almost fifteen percent.” Increasingly mystified, he followed the record tree into his energon intake systems, discovering a similar increased drain on his internal reserves in increments of one to three percent over the past fortnight. Just in case, he ran a deep scan on his self-repair systems. The results came back clear.

“No warnings, no hidden notices, no nothing. My body thinks I'm fine.” Ratchet vented in frustration. “Despite the obvious indicators that something in me is not.”

Optimus made a small rumble of sympathy. “Should we take you to the medical ward?”

Ratchet considered the option, but his generative centre protested at even the thought. “I'm not certain I'd make it, at these energy levels.”

Which was worrying in its own way, and he was only residually surprised when Optimus' expression firmed and he slipped out of the berth. “I will carry you if I must.”

“Fine.” Ratchet clambered out after him, clutching at a strong shoulder for support. “Let's hope it doesn't come to that.”

He followed Optimus out the door, logging onto the medical network to find out who was rostered on. First Aid should have been out the door over an hour ago – yet for some reason his work icon was still glowing brightly. The kid took after him in ways Ratchet was the first to admit weren't actually healthy.

Optimus' comm signature reached out across the public network. First Aid answered after a beat, signaling welcome/curiosity. Ratchet added his signature to Optimus' problem/arrival, tagging himself and emphasising trouble/non-urgent.

:: _Groove said you looked a little under the weather_ :: First Aid observed on a private channel. :: _I'll have a private exam room for you in a couple of minutes_. ::

What one Protectobot knew, all knew. Gestalts, Ratchet thought, shaking his helm.

They arrived in the medical ward. No longer a measly bay, as Ratchet had had to deal with for the first few years; now they had an entire functional recovery ward, with an enclosed surgical theatre and two separate exam rooms. The lights were bright and white, the room spotless and organized. Optimus shepherded Ratchet through the ranked recovery berths.

First Aid approached, a datapad in one hand and a collection of miscellaneous implements in the other. Evidently he'd been getting a head start on his spring cleaning. 

“Increased spark charge rate and energy consumption, causing lethargy,” Ratchet summarised. “I can't seem to find the drain.” He sent his former apprentice the results of his first scan over databurst.

First Aid, well used to his manner, simply made a note on his datapad. “I'm going to guess you're after a complete scan?”

“Unless you have a better idea, yes.” It was entirely possible; he'd taught First Aid himself. 

Aid considered him for a moment. “Knowing you, you've already done a deep scan on the problem systems. Why don't we try a broad-spectrum analysis first?”

“I have no evidence that it's a broad-spectrum problem; everything else is coming up fine. That... could be due to system bias.”

“If nothing else, it will prove that you're right,” Aid pointed out. His visor glinted, his field still and calm. “I'll get the handheld. There's a chair in the exam room if you want to sit down.”

He did, in fact. Ratchet sat heavily, a wave of tiredness crashing down on him. He wanted to recharge for months. 

“What is 'system bias'?” Optimus asked softly. He leant against the edge of the examination berth, rhythmically brushing his field over Ratchet's. “I'd not heard that term before.”

“Sometimes if your systems get used to working a certain way, under certain conditions, the performance values gradually drift out of the norm and your internal perception becomes skewed enough to hide certain abnormal results, such as problem indicators.” Ratchet tipped his helm back and offlined his optics, listening to the quiet hum of their systems. “I've been careful to keep good records of my performance values, though, and I haven't noticed any such shift.”

First Aid returned, carrying a device that would have been handheld, had he been of Ratchet's size class. Instead, the much smaller sylph clutched something nearly larger than his own head.

“I don't suppose you could hold this?” he asked Ratchet. “I don't have enough hands, you see.”

Reminded abjectly of the Protectobots' newspark days, Ratchet took the device without comment.

First Aid bent, programming scan parameters into the control panel. Three connectors popped from the top of the device. It had been a while since Ratchet had used one of those. The first two cords, red, yellow, got plugged into his ventral interface unit. The third went into the primary input port on his neck. Medical connection programs requested access to his systems histories. Ratchet granted it, despite the lingering mental itch they raised. He'd never been entirely fond of non-sentient entities poking around in his processors. That said, he'd never been exactly fond of the sentient ones either, but a living touch was infinitely preferable to a non-living one.

“That's... odd,” said First Aid. “I'm not sure I've come across this configuration before, Ratchet.”

“Which sector?” 

“Internal conversion. Self-repair is inert, but your nanite population is very active. And... oh.”

The soft exclamation was almost lost under the rush of white noise between Ratchet's audials.

He watched the scan rifle through his long-overlooked gestational mechanics with unblinking comprehension. The unusually high charge and energy drain suddenly made complete, terrifying sense.

“Oh,” he echoed. “I – yes, I see.”

First Aid stared at him with optics wide and field spiking hard. Ratchet stared back. His processor creaked as it attempted to pick up the strain.

“What is it?” asked Optimus, the only person in the room left out of the loop. “Is it a serious problem?”

Ratchet forcibly rebooted his higher thought protocols. “Shut the scan down,” he croaked. “I don't need it anymore.”

He pushed himself to his pedes, and it took more effort than he ever would have believed to turn around and face his mate. Optimus took in the expression on his face and his optics narrowed, his brows drawing down.

“Ratchet?” he asked, carefully, quietly.

Ratchet finally found the words he'd been looking for. “I... I don't know how I missed it. So blindingly obvious when you think about it.” He licked his lips, wondering how to phrase the next. “Optimus. I'm carrying.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet finds a kindred spirit, and later on, gives Optimus another reason to be happy.

_..._

_don't close your eyes 'cause the future's ready to shine_

_it's just a matter of time_

 ...

IF YOU WILL STUDY WAR NO MORE

The North American Autobot Headquarters was built into the southern flank of Mount St. Hilary, Washington State. On a good sunny day, half the base's personnel could be found there, sunbathing.

It was a Friday, Ratchet's usual day off. Bright blue sky arched overhead, wisps of high cloud streaking across the horizon. Snow covered the ground, several feet thick in places. Here and there, baby conifers poked their green heads up through the drifts. Ratchet could hear a rainwater stream trickling down from the upper slopes somewhere close by.

He glanced at the other occupant of the broad terraced balcony. June Darby sat just outside her apartment door, wrapped in a down jacket and thick ski pants. Her breath puffed white and her cheeks were going bright red in the wintry air.

“Are you sure you aren't cold?” Ratchet asked. Her vitals seemed okay, but humans were so fragile in cold weather.

June shook her head. “I grew up in Montana. This is like going home.”

She dug in her pocket and produced a homemade oatmeal bar wrapped in foil. “I sometimes wonder how you bear cold temperatures like this,” she said as she slowly unwrapped it with mittened fingers. “My car hates the cold. That's why I sold it. It would have been useless up here.”

Ratchet huffed good-naturedly. “Your car is a mass-produced nineties-model Toyota. I am the pinnacle of Cybertronian Golden Age adaptable design technology, built to withstand atmospheric temperature extremes far beyond what your planet produces. There is your explanation.”

“You don't like ice, though,” June observed. “Remember when you recharged outside last spring, and we had that cold front overnight?”

“I was hoping to put that behind me.” Ratchet sighed, easing himself down onto the edge of the terrace and hanging his legs over the side. The human personnel living quarters had been built over the guest amenities lounge. There were no visiting dignitaries at the moment; there should be no-one inside to see him swing his legs like a carefree newbuild. “Ice, if not dealt with properly, can cause physical damage to our mechanisms, enough to disable and potentially kill. If dealt with properly, it is merely an annoyance. The cold itself is not bothersome to us.”

June hummed, understanding. She took a bite of her oatmeal bar. “Oh dear. Bill forgot the syrup again.”

“I take it that's a bad thing,” Ratchet ventured.

“Mm. Cardboard with sugar crusting.” June smiled out at the distant Cascade Ranges, somewhat abashed. “And we sent half the batch to the kids as well.”

'The kids' referred to Jack Darby, at the University of Nevada in Reno, and Fowler's three, attending school in Maine. “Well,” said Ratchet, “at least they'll know who to thank for them.”

June laughed. A robin flew up from the terrace gutter and alit in a pine several yards up the mountain, twittering.

Quiet reigned for a few moments. The early afternoon sun cast long shadows across the open ground leading up to the base entrance. Ratchet rested his servos in his lap, and gazed thoughtfully down at them.

“June, may I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” she said, tucking her loose black hair behind one ear and looking up at him. “What is it?”

Ratchet ran through several possible structures in his processor before settling on the clearest one. “It may be quite a private matter, and therefore I don't expect an answer if it is, but... how did you feel when you first discovered that you were going to be a parent?”

June blinked. “That's... oddly specific.” She frowned out at the vista, but her expression was thoughtful rather than defensive. “I suppose... I felt a lot of things, Ratchet, but they were very dependent on what my life was like at the time.”

She sighed, and her exhalation turned to vapour in the air. “I was nineteen, working as a shop clerk, living with my parents in a small Montana town. I had a boyfriend, but we weren't... serious, I suppose, both of us more in love with the idea of being in love than with each other. I was sick three mornings in a row, so I took a pregnancy test. Two, actually. The first was positive, the second negative. I drove two hours out of town to find a doctor my parents didn't know. I didn't want anyone I knew to know. I'm still not sure why.

“The doctor told me I was five weeks along, gave me a prescription for prenatal vitamins. I went home and cried all night. It was terrifying. It felt like my life was ending. It took me two weeks to tell anyone – my mother, first, then my boyfriend. My mother was supportive, asking me what I wanted to do, helping me figure out my medical needs. My boyfriend... well, he didn't have a clue. He tried to help me, but we both knew that he was in over his head. We drifted apart, and eventually broke up.”

June paused, finished off the syrup-less oatmeal bar. “It was a scary time in my life. I knew that I couldn't keep living the way I'd been, but I couldn't imagine how I'd live the way I wanted to with a child dependent on me. I lost most of my friends as well. Some of them had simply taken paths in life too different to the one I was embarking on, leaving us with too little in common to stay. Others... well, single mothers have never been popular individuals within human society. I was lucky in that most of my town wasn't particularly religious, but Sunday services quickly became my least favourite part of the week.” She pursed her lips and drew her brows together in remembered displeasure. “It was lonely, frightening, and painful. That said, I came out of it a wiser, more responsible person. If I could go back and do it differently, I don't think I would.”

She turned to Ratchet with a warm smile and an intelligent glimmer in her eyes. “Is there any particular reason you asked?”

Ratchet cycled his ventilations. It had been five days since the discovery of his own pregnancy. The knowledge had yet to feel real.

He drew his hands back and gently pressed them to his abdominal plating. “This is classified, but... there are things I need to know, and you are the only mother I know, of either of our species. On Sunday, I discovered that I am carrying a newspark – a fetal Cybertronian.”

June's gray eyes widened. “You're... pregnant?”

Ratchet nodded. 

“Oh. Wow.” She blinked twice more. “Congratulations! How does that work?”

“You mean the pregnancy?” Ratchet clarified, amused despite himself. “Remarkably like yours, from my preliminary research.”

“Oh,” said June. “With the swelling and the exhaustion, the pain and the embarrassing leaks?”

“I don't know,” said Ratchet. “It's my first time.”

“Oh,” said June again, and this time her voice was rich with empathy. “You must be scared.”

Ratchet's shoulders slumped. “I am,” he said, with feeling. “I don't know what to do.”

June approached him, laying a mittened hand on his greaves. The tiny gesture was disproportionately comforting. “Does Optimus know?”

June was the only human who knew that he and Optimus were a mated pair, and was familiar with what that implied. Ratchet nodded; his EM field flicked out in an automatic affirmation, though he knew that June could not feel it.

“Yes, he knows,” he said. He gently touched his hand to June's in thanks. “He, I think, may be more frightened than I am.”

June smiled, leant companionably against his thigh. “What are you going to do?”

“I don't know,” said Ratchet. “What I should do is very different from what I wish with all my spark that I could do.”

June looked up at him, her grey eyes serious. “The war?”

“Yes. But there is also our relationship with your governments, and our state as a species to consider, all of which are in opposition with one another.” Ratchet vented hard, blowing a puff of warm air out of his internals. Like June's, it condensed into water vapour in the air and drifted away. “Prowl and Elita are considering the tactical and political options. What I want is low on the list of priorities.”

“No,” June said with uncharacteristic force. “No, that's not going to work. Your wishes should be the first thing considered. It's unethical to do otherwise unless you yourself say so. And it doesn't sound like that's the case to me.”

Ratchet gave her a long look. He tried to ignore the flicker of vindicated relief that wended through his emotional protocols at the expression of fierce intent on her face, her being directed entirely toward his defence.

“It is not,” he admitted.

“What do you want to do?” she asked, softly.

“I want to keep it.” He touched his belly again, low over his pelvic girdle where his gestation hardware sat beneath the armour. “If I do, I'll be out of service for a long time. We would have to notify your governments. I don't want to think of how the protestors might take it. But in five years' time, the Cybertronian species might number four hundred and fifty-one.”

“And what does Optimus want?” continued June.

Ratchet found himself smiling. “He wants the same. He wants to create life for once, rather than end it. I want him to have a chance at that more than anything else.”

June was quiet for a while. “I think he'd be a good father,” she said at length. “Is there a Cybertronian word for 'father'?”

“In my first language, Protihexi, the word for a catalytic parent of a kindled sparkling – you might say 'sire', I suppose – lacks the emotional connotation, and the word for a caretaker of any youngling, Well-born sparks included, lacks the paternal association.” He thought back to his own youngling days, so many thousands of vorn ago. “There was a loanword from Praxian. 'Asa, I think. It was an affectionate term, somewhat childish, for a paternal parent.”

“'Daddy', maybe?” suggested June.

Ratchet smiled lopsidedly. “I think Optimus would like that.” He spread his hands and looked down at himself. The corresponding word for the maternal parent had been 'ama. He visualised a sparkling standing before him, holding up its tiny hands and burbling “'ama!” at him, over and over again.

“Thank you,” he said to June. “I needed that.”

* * *

Late that night found Ratchet alone in his and Optimus' shared berth, restless.

It was just past midnight. Optimus' shift had ended ten minutes ago. Ratchet wanted him back already, so that they could cuddle and kiss and maybe mate.

He turned his helm to the side and pressed his face into the helmrest, trying to banish the sense of shuddering impatience that lingered in his struts. First Aid had put him on a midgrade diet while he made up for the energy loss of the past week. Midgrade was not quite refined enough to cause the lapses in processing capability and accurate data gathering that highgrade was prone to, but it had a similarly enervating effect. Ratchet had quickly gone from dog-tired to fairly normal, and from there into feeling like he could take on a Decepticon army by himself. In such a state, hoping to recharge was useless.

He needed to burn off the excess energy.

He'd kicked the heavy thermosheets back, cycling his vents wide open. His servos drifted across his chassis, digits dipping into the gaps between his armour. Heat bloomed in his chest. His spark tightened and whirled faster.

He dropped his left hand to his side and flared open his ventral armour, thumbing the recessed ports. His neural net flared pleasure all down his left side. Ratchet let his helm fall back and gave a throaty moan.

The berthroom door clicked open.

Optimus stepped in, his arms full of datapads. He froze at the sight of Ratchet, his optics widening and flickering blue-white with surprise. The mere sight of him made a thrill of arousal go shooting through Ratchet's base coding.

“Well?” he said, his voice made husky with charge. The look on Optimus' face made him bold. He stroked his hands down his chest and belly and tipped his helm back, baring the protoform of his throat. “Are you going to join in?”

Optimus came alive; his optics flared, his field expanding rapidly and voraciously.

He strode to his desk, divested himself of datapads, and then he was on the berth with Ratchet, looming over him, eager desire in his carefully restrained frame and every wavelength of his field.

He grasped Ratchet's knees, pushing his legs apart. Ratchet spread them eagerly. He groaned as Optimus went to his hands and knees between them, caressing Ratchet's thighs until his armour stays relaxed and he was able to reach the sensitive protoform beneath.

“It is all right for us do do this?” Optimus murmured, following the seam of Ratchet's inner thigh armour with his thumbs. “It will not hurt the newspark?”

Ratchet made a noise partway between a laugh and a moan. “No, but if we don't it might hurt me!” He grabbed Optimus' closer wrist and pulled it up to his valve panel. He was hot and wet inside, and he wanted Optimus so much.

Optimus cupped his panels, but made no move to continue. “We are going to do it, then?”

Ratchet stared up at him, confusion stirring through the arousal fogging his processor. “Do what?”

His mate was silent for a moment, glancing away and then back to Ratchet with a look of firm determination. “You want to do this, to carry this child of ours?”

Ratchet's hands went to his belly without conscious prompting. Optimus' much larger hand slid up to join them.

Staring down at their joined hands, Ratchet realised that he had made his decision a long time ago.

“Yes, I do.”

Optimus' expression broke. Everything about him swelled with relieved longing, his field enveloping Ratchet, vivid golden joy warming their world. He leaned in over Ratchet, pressing their forehelms together, gathering Ratchet into his arms.

“I understand the arguments against this,” he said, “but I have wanted to walk this road with you for so long. I love you, and I am so proud of you.”

Ratchet tried to answer, but he simply did not have the words. Instead he linked his arms around Optimus' neck, clinging tight. Emotional intensity segued into physical sensation. He kissed Optimus, hard and desperate. Optimus responded with equal fervor.

Somewhere between them, Ratchet felt his valve panel fold away. He made a small noise of surprise, and Optimus drew back, blinking down at him. The shift in balance brought his pelvic frame grinding up against Ratchet's external components, making his optics widen and brighten in understanding.

Optimus braced himself on his forearm, reaching the other between them. He slid his hand down Ratchet's lower body, searching by tactile memory. His fingertips found Ratchet's pelvic frame and dipped between his legs.

Ratchet squirmed and arched beneath him as Optimus spread his external folds open, cried out as Optimus tested his body's readiness with a single digit. “Yes, Optimus, please!”

He'd never been much of a valve mech. Then Optimus had happened, and really, it was a good thing that things had worked out the way they did, because Ratchet's job as a medic meant that he could afford to carry their child eminently more so than could the Last Prime.

Optimus shifted above him, muffling his exhortations with a sweet, involved kiss. He pulled his digit out of Ratchet, gently rubbing his needy entrance as if to placate him. Then there was the sound of his own interface panel opening. Optimus' spike pressurized, scraping against the joint of Ratchet's hip and thigh.

Optimus took hold of it, guiding the tip to Ratchet's valve. The pressure of it against his sensor-rich external mesh made Ratchet's vents catch and shriek. It spread him apart, opening him up.

The smooth push inward, when it came, felt ecstatic, pleasure and the sheer rightness of it pulsing throughout his body. Base coding drew his knees up, clamping them around Optimus' hips. He arched, lifting his pelvic frame into Optimus' shallow, fevered thrusts. He wanted it, wanted this so much, the mech above him someone he knew he could trust with the deepest parts of himself. He gave Optimus his pleas and cries, his responsiveness, wanting Optimus to know how much he was wanted.

Optimus kissed Ratchet's mouth, his chevron and his forehelm, pulling up by increments. He slid his hands to Ratchet's hips and pressed down, pinning him to the berth. His movements deepened, drawing a low, stuttered groan from Ratchet. “That's – yes, perfect!”

Burning-hydrogen bursts of electricity rocked Ratchet's frame. He rode the overload, his sensory processors creaking under the strain. He felt Optimus moving on top of him, inside him, clung to his mate's shoulders for support as the final wave peaked and he shook and cried out wordlessly.

Optimus kept going, one stroke, two, and then he came, his heavy-duty engine roaring. The crackling flood of charge and hot transfluid into his oversensitised valve made Ratchet grit his dente and drag his digits down Optimus' back, grounding himself.

The noise of their cooling fans filled the room, pings and ticks of cooling metal punctuating the darkness. Ratchet could smell the telltale burned-wire odour of a blown capacitor array or two. He checked his core temperature readings out of habit.

Optimus had caught his weight on his forearms as he'd overloaded. He made a near-subsonic groan, picking his higher processors up off the floor. He lowered his helm, tentatively nuzzling Ratchet's face.

Ratchet's spark lifted at the rare demonstration of Optimus' affection. He turned himself into the gentle kisses, content to let himself be held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet+June broship forever! :D I'm drawing a topographical map of the Mt St Hilary base if anyone's interested. It's kind of complicated and cool.
> 
> Also, lots of babymaking sex. I don't have an emoji for a wink and a thumbs-up, but if I did there would be one right here.


	3. Chapter 3

_we're friends first, so I want to smile, look at you, and have fun every day_

IF YOU WILL STUDY WAR NO MORE

 

Ratchet sent Prowl a communiqué the next day, asking for an audience. Prowl, prompt and organised mech that he was, replied with an appointment time before Ratchet had so much as finished his morning energon.

Ratchet sighed through his side vents. Prowl had given him a fifteen-minute block of time just before his shift in the recovery ward began. He drained his cube of natron-spiced midgrade and excused himself from the rec room table.

It was going to be a busy day.

One of Red Alert's security cameras hung from the ceiling in the hallway just outside Prowl's office door. It watched Ratchet as he approached, motion sensor scans washing over his frame.

The Ark's Executive Officer opened the door remotely, ushering him in.

Ratchet stepped through and the door slid shut behind him. On the edge of hearing, the locking mechanisms clicked.

The black and white mech behind the expansive desk looked up from a holoscreen, as if he'd just noticed Ratchet standing there on the threshold.

“Good morning,” said Prowl, ever professional. His doorwings flicked upwards, a nonverbal form of greeting that put Ratchet a little more at ease than the smooth, detached hello. “I trust that you are well?”

Ratchet nodded. “I've made my decision,” he said. It was better to cut to the chase in dealing with Prowl, who valued efficiency above all things. “I want to—I'm _going_ to keep the sparkling.”

Prowl merely frowned. It was not the reaction Ratchet had expected. “You are certain?”

“Absolutely certain.”

There was a guest chair in the corner, seldom used. Ratchet dragged it out and sat, resting his hands on his thighs. “I want this child,” he told Prowl, plainly and openly. “I am not generally included in the combat roster in any case, so I won't be endangered by my carriage, and the duties that I do have will not be interfered with until the final stages. Our resources are currently sufficient to support a colony of twice as many mecha as we currently have. On top of those factors I cannot conscience the idea of termination when our species is so critically endangered in the first place. Yes, I am certain of my decision.”

“You will lack for medical care,” Prowl pointed out. “I know that neither you, nor First Aid or Hoist have the appropriate qualifications for prenatal medical care.”

“You think _I_ don't know that?” Ratchet said archly. “Prowl, it's a risk, but we take those all the time in other areas. We don't have a qualified neural surgeon either, unless Pharma's still alive out there somewhere. It's a risk I'm willing to take.”

“If you misjudge, we lose our most able and experienced medic.” Prowl fastidiously stacked a pair of hardcopies. “What do you intend to tell the humans?”

Ratchet's optics slid to the bank of screens behind Prowl's desk. They were security feeds from various high-risk places around the base. One showed the closed gates out at the highway. Three RVs of varying sizes parked along the roadside, barely visible through falling snow.

“The protestors will keep calling for our eviction no matter what we do,” he said. “They must be cold out there. You'd think they'd have gone home by now.”

“It isn't them I am worried about,” Prowl said. “The latent potential for xenophobia in a species which has never before experienced interplanetary contact is huge. In addition, the topic of reproduction among humans is fraught with religious and moral prescriptivism on a level I had thought died with the Golden Age. My concern is that, confronted with the prospect of our own reproduction, the two factors will drive a significant proportion of the population whom had, up until now, been moderates and waverers, into the camps of the radicals.”

A rush of stubborn resent welled up within Ratchet's chest. His plating lifted, cool winter air licking in among the subdural components beneath.

“We couldn't simply... refrain from telling them?”

Prowl chuffed his vents in mimicry of a snort. “The likelihood of such a plan yielding satisfactory results is extremely low.”

“Of course,” said Ratchet with a gloomy huff of vents. “What should I tell them? My personal life is no concern of theirs.”

“We will have ample time to prepare an announcement,” Prowl said smoothly. “I do not believe that withholding details would be in our – or _your_ – best interests, however. If there were to be a perception that we were keeping secrets, the likely human reaction would be suspicion.”

“It sounded to me that you think that will happen anyway.” Ratchet sat back in the chair. Primus, he hoped it didn't come to that.

“It is an inevitability,” said Prowl. “There is suspicion now, even among those entities which profess to be our allies. Our aim is therefore to allay it in those whose personalities tend toward it, and prevent it from ever taking root in those whose don't.”

Ratchet shuttered his optics for a moment. “And how do you propose we go about that?”

The XO gave a small smile. “I suggest that we follow the humans' own protocol for announcing such matters.”

“Which is?”

“Nurse Darby could probably tell you better than I.” Prowl's expression did not move a millimetre. “I gather that it customarily involves a two-page exclusive spread in a light current events publication meant for older females of the species.”

Something of Ratchet's stricken doubt must have slipped past his control, because Prowl continued after a searching look.

“If we present your condition to them in a familiar manner, I believe it will absorb at least a little of the effect of the unfamiliar circumstances. Rather than drip-feed the larger populace information, leaving them to draw their own conclusions which will more than likely be erroneous and influenced by those among them willing to believe the worst of us, we will present this as the joyous occasion it should be.” Prowl folded his servos in his lap and gave a firm nod. “We will celebrate your child's arrival, and we will invite our gracious allies to celebrate with us.”

Prowl had been a tactician before his promotion. He still fulfilled that function occasionally, where he could be spared from the day-to-day running of the Autobots. According to the Ark's mission logs he'd picked up a little experience in public relations.

Ratchet realised that his servos had settled of their own accord against his abdomen, clasped hand in hand over the deep-set gestational components.

He vented, once, twice. “I see.”

Prowl watched him for a moment. “The final decision will be undertaken by Optimus Prime and Elita One, of course, being our commanders, but I believe this route to provide us with the highest probability of success.”

Ratchet simply nodded. And when it became clear that he wasn't going to answer further, Prowl picked up a hardcopy sheet and a stylus.

“Now, I believe you mentioned something about a modified shift schedule?”

* * *

Later that day, after his medbay shift was over, Ratchet headed across the base to find Optimus. The Prime had his own office just down the corridor from the medical ward, but Ratchet had gotten no answer from the office's comm line when he checked. Optimus often visited his other officers at this time of day. Ratchet logged into the base comm network, and found Optimus' signature logged in the shuttle hangar on the south side of the mountain, alongside that of Elita One.

A blast of wintry air met him as he opened the door. The hangar was hollowed out of the mountain, open to the air on one side to let flight patrols come and go. There was a force field across the opening in case of attack, but it was fuel-inefficient, and seldom powered on.

Optimus stood further toward the eastern end of the hangar, in front of a half-built atmospheric dogfighter in a scaffold harness. A hint of pink on his other side gave away Elita.

Ratchet approached. Gradually he made out their conversation.

“—estimate that she'll be completed by late 2019, about three hundred and sixty million over budget. Which is obviously not ideal.”

Engineers, human and Cybertronian crawled over the dogfighter's frame. Research and development was not Ratchet's forte, but he spent enough time listening to Wheeljack (usually in the medbay, while he was repairing the maverick engineer's injuries and thus was a captive audience) to recall that the ship was a collaboration between the Autobots and various human groups, among them DARPA and the United Nations' Extraterrestrial Task Force.

“In my experience, experimental technologies such as this are always completed over budget,” rumbled Optimus. “We shall see what happens.”

Ratchet announced his presence with a genteel stutter of his ventilation fans. “That sounds about right to me.”

Optimus turned to him with a glad smile. “Good evening, Ratchet.”

Ratchet moved close to him and leant companionably against his side. Optimus slid his arm around his shoulders and held him firmly.

On his other side, Elita gave a welcoming smile, her violet optics twinkling. “I have already given my blessings to Optimus, of course, but it appears I must pass on the congratulations to you as well.”

“Thank you,” said Ratchet, returning the smile. Elita was considerably taller than him, and he had to crane his neck upward to meet her optics, as he did with Optimus. “I'll be glad to have your support, more than likely.”

Elita laughed. “I recently heard a human idiom that seems to have relevance to the situation: 'it takes a village to raise a child.' We do not have a village, but perhaps a reserve battalion will suffice.” She glanced to Optimus; their optics met, and hers narrowed in amusement, some subverbal communication passing between the two of them. By the sudden flush of carmine warmth through Optimus' EM field, Ratchet suspected it had been a joke at his mate's expense. Elita had always had a knowing sense of humour.

“I will be the first to admit that I know very little about raising sparklings,” said Optimus, somewhat dryly, “but surely it cannot be _that_ bad.”

“Hot Rod was an education in and of himself,” said Elita, airily. “I will give you three points of advice: the first, prepare yourself to repeat every command five times over; the second, do not let their size fool you – they are capable of reaching things well above what looks as though it should be their range, and denta-marks on datapads will _never_ come out; and three, never underestimate the sheer stubborn persistence of a sparkling who has made up his mind.”

Ratchet rumbled deep in his engine, amused. “We will keep that in mind.”

An answering flare of energy from his spark made him gasp. His hands went to his chest, pressing over his central seam. The sensation persisted, coming in a wave of pleasant throbs, then ebbed away in seconds.

Optimus' arm tightened around Ratchet's shoulders. Ratchet looked up; both mecha were staring at him, optics bright with concern.

“Are you all right?” asked Optimus.

Ratchet reviewed his spark data streams. “Yes, I think so. I just felt a... surge.”

“I felt it too,” murmured Optimus. “Is that normal?”

A thread of worry wended through Optimus' EM field. Ratchet realised anew just how much importance he had placed upon the newspark, how much it meant to him.

“It's all right,” he said, moving his hand from chest to shoulder and placing it over Optimus'. “The first phases of carrying are complex. I'll check with the database, but from what I know, I'm not worried.”

Optimus relaxed somewhat. Behind him, Elita grinned.

“As I said, an education, often in discomfort.”

“I feel as if I should object to that tone of voice,” said Optimus, raising his optics to the hangar roof. “You sound entirely too happy.”

“Should I not be?” she returned with an expression of innocence. “One of my oldest friends is going to have a sparkling with the love of his life. What occasion is more happy than that?”

“I'm surprised you said that with a straight face,” said Ratchet. But then, Elita was a former Towersmech. There was no finer training regimen to develop such a poker face for the ages.

She smirked at him and dipped a quick bow, as if she had read his thoughts.

“Enough of that,” said Optimus, though there was a twitch that might have been a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I have too much paperwork to do to put up with your senses of humour.”

Elita straightened, still smiling. “Very well; I shall save it for some high-grade over the weekend. Ratchet can help me ambush you.”

Ratchet huffed, laughing. “If I did, I rather think I'd be keeping him to myself.”

Optimus shook his helm, and let go of Ratchet's shoulders. “I rather think I should go before you work out a trade agreement over my body. Ratchet, I have a late meeting with the Pacific East representatives tonight, and I may be late to berth. If I don't see you again before then, let me take the opportunity to say good night.”

And he bent down, taking Ratchet by the hands and pressing their mouths together. Ratchet had not expected the public display of affection, especially not in front of the engineers still working on the dogfighter not twenty mechanometres away, but he relaxed into the kiss and twined his digits around Optimus', blinking up at his mate as the chaste kiss ended.

There was a whoop and a wolf whistle from somewhere in the scaffolding. The engineers had paused to watch the spectacle – Ratchet caught sight of Wheeljack in the open hole that would someday be the gunner's pit, grinning like a loon and mouthing words Ratchet was sure he didn't want to know.

Their relationship had never been formally announced, but the fact that they shared the same quarters and the same berth meant that everyone who lived and worked in Mount St Hilary had guessed at its extent. Occasionally such rumours made it into the outside world. Still, since his ascension to the Primacy, Optimus had not been given to overt displays of physical affection.

Ratchet smiled up at him. “That was quite a goodnight. Not that I'm complaining, of course.”

Optimus straightened, glancing toward the engineers with a look nonplussed at his own daring. “Yes, it was. I think perhaps I should do it more often.”

He gave Ratchet a fleeting smile; turned, and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had half this chapter written for ages, and I really wanted to get it posted before I went off to LSV, so it's a bit short. I'll make it up when I get back XD Next chapter is the birds and the bees talk :V Should be fun.


End file.
